Unravelling
by Clogette
Summary: Sister Julienne visits Shelagh
1. Chapter 1

It is not uncommon in moments of despair and grief to find myself either: in our chapel, knelt carefully infront of the altar, laying my heart out to God; or quietly sat in my room, carefully reading the theological literature I have accumulated over the years. To root myself in God in moments of despair and desperation is to find my anchor. And when I have that solid foundation, I am more secure in knowing how to go forward as the one that my fellow Sister's and the midwives look to for wisdom and courage.

It is important to acknowledge our strengths, given to us by the Lord, and I know mine lies in careful consideration and an ability to be level-headed in a crisis.

So, finding myself on the doorstep of the Turner house, with the threatening of tears spilling from my eyes and the ever growing lump in my throat is as much of a surprise to me as it is to Timothy, who opens the door.

"Sister Julienne," he says, almost questioningly. "Come in."

I smile, even though I feel my mouth wavering and twitching under the stress of my strained grin.

I move into the living room.

"Dad's been called out," Timothy begins. "And mum is reading a story to Angela ready for bed."

I nod and take a seat on the sofa. I have known Timothy his whole life, but suddenly it is difficult to converse and I can see he senses that, shifting slightly. His awkwardness reminds me so much of his father.

He looks to the door. "I'll get mum…"

"No…" I say, rather more firmly than I mean to. The last thing I wanted was to be here as an interuption to their usual routines.

Timothy gives a cheeky smile, "To be honest, Sister, Angela much prefers my reading. She says Mum doesn't do the voices properly."

I laugh and watch the teenager admirably as he leaves the room. He may have Dr Turner's awkwardness, but he has his perception of emotion from his step-mum.


	2. Chapter 2

I wonder, really, what I am doing here – in the Turner's living room. I suddenly feel ridiculous and incredibly self-conscious. When I gave my life to God as a Sister it was because I wanted my selfishness to die to selflessness. I believe we all have feelings and emotions that we trample down and lock away, to dwell on them can become dangerous and into a cycle of self obsession.

And yet the lump in my throat remains, almost choking me as I wait for Shelagh to appear. I can feel my heart thumping faster and faster as the days events bubble inside me, threatening to spill into tears. I'm not sure I can even make myself speak.

In my daze, I fail to notice Shelagh appear at the door, where she pauses briefly. I am so engrossed in my own thoughts that I miss her lean against the door frame, simply observing me as I wade through all the thoughts that run across my mind. I'm barely able to catch them, it's as if I'm desperately trying to grab fistfuls of water.

X X X X

"Sister Julienne is here," Timothy says from behind me.

I look up from the children's story I have begun reading with Angela. "Oh?"

"I can do that," he offers, gesturing to the book in my hand.

"Oh no, it's OK. I'll only be ten minutes."

Timothy sits next to me on the bed and takes the book from my hand. "I am not sure Sister Julienne can wait ten minutes," he says. "She seems…strange."

I give him a quizzical look, and then chuckle slightly, not knowing what he is getting at.

"Very well," I reply, surrendering the story of a Princess awaiting her Prince to the teenager and gently kissing Angela goodnight.

Making my way out of the room and towards the living room I pause when I reach the door. I stop myself from saying anything to alert my friend to my presence. She is pensive, serious, and staring into middle distance. It's not a look I am used to. Sister Julienne nearly always has a face of joy – not necessarily the overtly excitable kind, but an absolute contented joy. It is why people have always found her so comforting. It is why I find her so comforting in the dark times.

I lean against the door frame, barely daring to breathe for interrupting her thoughts. Although, I'm almost convinced that I could start an orchestra and she would not flinch. Regardless, I pad my way quietly across the carpet to where she is sat. She doesn't move. I do not get my usual greeting of a smile that starts with her eyes lighting up. Those eyes do not follow me. They don't even flicker. I kneel down infront of her so that I am at eye level and gently place my hands around hers – enveloping them. It's our thing. It's how we communicate so much with so few words.

"Sister?" I whisper, barely audible to either of us. But it is enough. She blinks, and her eyes instantly fill with tears. They glisten and then they threaten to fall. My heart breaks for the pain and difficulty I see she is faced with. I don't know what it is, and I don't need to know, but I can feel it. I can sense it. As real to me as the touch of our hands. She bows her head and lifts her hands, with mine, so that she can rest her head on them. She looks like she's praying, but I get the feeling right now that all she is trying to do is keep herself together, as her emotions begin to unravel around her, falling freely now onto her lap tear drop by tear drop.

I rest my head against hers and all I can do is hold those hands - hands that have upheld me for so many years through all my trials and valleys – and hope that it is enough.


End file.
